


Long Way Down

by DeadWalker



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bickering Steve and Bucky are my favorite thing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I just have a lot of Bucky feels okay, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 04:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2255157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadWalker/pseuds/DeadWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You're gonna be okay. We're gonna be okay.”</p><p>Bucky pressed his nose into the hollow of Steve's throat, breathing deeply.</p><p>“You promise?”</p><p>“No,” Steve said softly, “I can't, but even if we won't be, we'll figure it out.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Way Down

**Author's Note:**

> I get ridiculously emotional about Bucky Barnes, sometimes. (Kidding, I'm emotional about Bucky like 24/7) Sorry and hope you enjoy.
> 
> Title borrowed from the [Tom Odell ](http://youtu.be/5LACTaIGAew) song.

Everyone had a story.

The Soldier knew he had one, an old one, that started a long time ago.

It was something he had long since forgotten, but he could sense the beginnings of a new one. This one started with a name, choked out by someone who he could not remember but who seemed very, very important.

It sang in his veins, so he pulled the man out of the water, and waited. 

The man took a heaving breath, and breathed out a name that must have belonged to the Soldier, once. 

"Bucky," he said. "You're alright, thank God."

_Bucky._

The Soldier couldn't remember his story, but he could start again.

"Tell me about him," he told the man.

______

It wasn't easy. 

No-one had ever told him it would be, but a man could hope, couldn't he?

______

There were doctors, and psychiatrists, and people who asked him questions. They all poked and prodded him, wanted to know about Hydra, about his hits.

They all wore the SHIELD insignia on their clothes. Steve said these people were the trusted ones – Hydra had infested SHIELD, but there were those that could still be trusted – and they wanted to help.

The Soldier didn't trust them. Bucky may not have trusted them, either; but he did trust Steve, so he let them.

Most nights found Bucky trashing awake, screaming. He cracked the safety glass between his little containment cell and the observation room. 

When Steve finally got the okay to take Bucky home, they packed their things and moved to the Avengers Tower; the man who owned the Tower (Tony, Bucky's mind reminded him) had offered them a place to stay, and Steve had accepted. They had a sprawling three-bedroom apartment, stretching the entire floor.

He shattered the mirror in the bathroom of that apartment, twice.

“You're okay, Bucky,” Steve murmured into his ear, after each time, plucking shards of glass from Bucky's bloodied knuckles. “I'm here. We're gonna be okay.” 

And damn his fickle heart – the heart that might not have remembered much, but it did remember it was to follow this blue-eyed boy to the ends of the Earth – Bucky believed him. 

______

Most days, Bucky was confused.

There were a lot of days when he woke up and wasn't completely sure where he was. He would snap awake with blood roaring in his ears, body coiled like the spring of a loaded weapon, and his hands would reach for the knives he kept under his pillow.

He never remembered where he was, and he always tried to run.

In the first month he and Steve had lived in the Avengers tower, it happened at least three times a week. He never actually made it out of the apartment, and Bucky suspected it had something to do with the computer that lived in the walls.

“It's called JARVIS,” Tony had explained. “The artificial intelligence that runs the entire tower.”

In hindsight, of course, it might have been better if Tony had thought to explain it _before_ Bucky had his first encounter with it.

He had met the artificial butler the on the first morning after they had moved in. Bucky had woken up in a wild panic from a dream where a man with a fair hair and a cold, cold grin had been smiling mirthlessly at him. He had felt chilled to the bone, and the metal arm at his side ached at the seams.

As soon as his eyes snapped open, he had fumbled for the Glock tucked between the wall and the headboard of the bed. The one Steve didn't know about.

The computer stopped him on his tracks at the elevator doors.

“ _Sergeant Barnes, I assure you there are no hostiles in the apartment,_ ” It said. It sounded polite, and very British. _“I do not mean to agitate you, sir, but I have been instructed not to let you out of the apartment without informing Captain Rogers._ ”

Bucky had tensed like a trapped animal.

Did they have Steve? Was he hurt?

Bucky's mind scrambled to remember if he had heard Steve's soft breathing from his bedroom when he'd slipped past. He couldn't remember. He had to do something.

He pulled one more handgun from beneath the couch cushions – he had hidden weapons all over the apartment when Steve wasn't looking – and pointed them at the ceiling, blood burning in his veins.

He fired two shots, and bolted.

Seconds later, the elevator doors slid open to let in a wild-looking Steve, Tony close behind. Steve was wearing sweat-soaked training clothes, and Tony was still holding on to a screwdriver. They both looked alarmed, but Steve seemed to be... unhurt.

“What the hell is goin– “ Tony stopped in his tracks and his eyebrows climbed to his hairline. He might have even looked mildly impressed. “How the hell did you get up there?”

Two faces peered up at Bucky, where he was crouching on top of one of the support beams in the ceiling that ran across the entire living area. 

He shifted to lean back to the wall and scowled down. “What the fuck was that?”

A crease appeared between Tony's brows.

“What is what?”

“The voice. The man who talked to me just now,” Bucky ground out. “He called me _Sergeant_.”

Tony had looked baffled for exactly two seconds before he let out a breath. “Oh, Jesus. I forgot to warn you.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Warn me about what?”

“About JARVIS. He's an AI,” Tony said, the screwdriver in one hand and gesturing at the ceiling with the other. “A computer. You do know what a computer is, right? Sometimes I'm not really sure if Captain Grandpa here even knows how his smart phone works and I – ” 

“Tony,” Steve said with a sigh.

It shut Tony up for approximately two heartbeats.

“Right,” he said. Then he was off again, jabbering about artificial intelligence security protocols and something about “reprogramming the whole thing, you know, so Jarvis knows not to spook you two.”

Bucky decided right then and there he didn't much like Tony. He was too loud, his movements too sudden and jerky. He kept touching everything and anything in his vicinity, tossed the tool in his hands in the air, waved his hands in patterns when he talked.

It made him seem unfocused and careless, but Bucky hadn't missed the sharp intelligence shining from behind the eyes that had sharply scanned the room. The man was dangerous, all the more for the fact that people might not realize it right away.

Tony patted Steve on the arm, and Bucky's grip on the gun tightened. He shouldn't be touching Steve.

“Anyway,” Tony finished, spreading his arms. “He's nothing to be feared, he's just a comp with a funny accent and he's here to help. JARVIS, buddy, say hi to the geriatric division, will you?”

“ _Good evening, Captain. Evening, Sergeant Barnes,_ ” the bodiless voice said. 

Still cautious, Bucky didn't lower his guns; he did slide down smoothly from the beam to land soundlessly beside Steve.

“Are you hurt?” Bucky asked him, eyes scanning him from head to toe. No visible injuries, but Steve might be dumb enough to hide any he had.

When Steve just wordlessly shook his head, looking absolutely baffled, Bucky turned to leave.

He flicked on the safety on one of the guns, and pointed it at Tony. “I don't like you,” he told him before stalking back to his bedroom. 

He heard Tony's cheerful response to Steve before he closed the door behind him.

“Don't worry, Cap. He fits right in, I swear, you should have seen how Romanoff reacted.”

______

It took a while before Bucky got comfortable around the others.

The thing was, people rarely touched Bucky. Not casually, anyway.

In the first weeks, most of the Avengers tower occupants had the presence of mind to give him the space he needed. They avoided accidental contact, like brushing against him while passing by; cups of coffee and folders bearing his name were handed to Steve instead of him with a "Pass these on to Barnes, will you?" usually tagged at the end.

Sometimes they treated him like a spooked animal, a ticking time bomb, and Bucky thought he understood – nobody laid hands on bombs.

Initially, nobody besides Steve had the guts to come within arm's reach of him. 

For a bunch of assassins, monsters, and traumatized soldiers, they were actually a pretty tactile bunch of people. There was Tony and his careless arm, usually slung over the person who happened to be standing closest to him; Clint with his bear hugs that started with a delighted squeal and lasted a little too long; Thor with his suffocating embraces when he forgot he was embracing mortals, and he might actually break someone. Bruce's hugs were brief but warmer than anyone's.

Even Natasha had her moments, that everyone seemed to know to appreciate for their rareness. It was an unquestionable honor when she'd wrap her slender arm around the neck of the person she deemed worthy, sometimes landing a soft peck on their cheek.

For the first month or so, there seemed to be a wordless agreement that unless Bucky approached anyone on his own, only Steve was to lay hands on him.

Steve stood between his brittle nerves and the rest of the world like a wall, and Bucky couldn't decide if he should slap Steve for excessive mothering, or be eternally grateful for it.

Being out in public was always the hardest, too many bodies and crowded streets, but Steve had developed a way to discreetly position himself between Bucky and everything else – a living shield, gently holding on to Bucky's arm and murmuring a steady stream of nothings in his ear to keep him from panicking.

He remembered that one time when a man had ran into him right outside Central Station, when they were returning from a morning jog.

The guy – a big, brawny man with a mean scowl and a cheap suit – had barreled right into Bucky as they were crossing a street. Bucky had been just momentarily shocked, but the impact had made the guy to stumble and sent a stack of papers he'd been holding to scatter on the street like leaves in the wind.

The guy had been about to snap; He'd gone beet root red in the face and wheeled on Bucky, standing stock still and frozen on the spot.

Whatever litany of curses the guy had had at the tip of his tongue, they had died in his mouth when he had caught a glimpse of Steve's face from where he was hovering at Bucky's elbow.

Bucky never had time to see Steve's expression, but it sent the guy scrambling in the other direction, face livid and eyes wide. The hand that curled around Bucky's waist protectively to steer him away told its own story.

But apparently, Sam had decided to be the exception to the unspoken rule.

In the beginning, when the Soldier still stared from behind his eyes, he was the only person besides Steve who didn't avoid him, and eventually it led to casual touches from the others, too.

He started appearing at the door of their Tower apartment a few weeks after Bucky had been released from the medical. With his quick smiles and easy manner, Bucky found himself relaxing around Sam.

He was never empty handed. Every time he showed up at their doorstep, he was toting either mugs of takeout coffee, bags of breakfast, or increasingly confusing array of DVD box sets.

“Game of Thrones, you gotta see it, man. Really cool.” He planted the DVDs in Bucky's hands and went to drag Steve over to the couch. He made them sit in front of the massive TV in their living area and watch through two seasons in one sitting.

Somewhere between the fifth and the sixth episode of the first season, Natasha and Clint had found their way in, and curled at the end of the sofa. Both had been in their pajamas, though Bucky wondered if anyone else had noticed they were both carrying at least six knives and a handgun each.

It was actually pretty nice.

Steve was leaning on his side, encircling him with the arm slung over the back of the couch, bickering with Clint and Sam about some character on the show. Bucky hadn't payed much attention – he was more focused on the fingers absently playing with a strand of hair at the back of his neck, and the warmth of the body pressed to his side.

He leaned into Steve, and spaced out.

At one point Steve made to move away, probably to use the bathroom or give Bucky some space or some equally stupid reason. The hand Bucky curled at the hem of Steve's shirt stopped him on his tracks. After that, he'd hooked a finger through one of Steve's belt loops to keep him in place.

Natasha's toes were casually tucked under his legs.

At his questioning glance, she'd just eloquently raised one perfect eyebrow. “My feet are cold,” had been her only answer. She'd tucked herself under Clint's arm and burrowed her feet deeper under Bucky's thigh.

It was the first time anyone besides Sam or Steve had dared to touch him in a manner that had no agenda. Just a touch.

It all felt very.... homely.

He wondered if they did it on purpose.

After that, Sam coaxed Bucky for runs, small errands and trips down to the Tower's own gym. To Bucky's own surprise, he actually realized he _liked_ Sam. He was easy to be around, constantly keeping up a light prattle and perfectly fine with carrying on a conversation on his own when Bucky didn't feel like talking. Sometimes he asked about what Bucky remembered, but never pushed.

He was Good, with a capital G, and Bucky could see it clear as daylight.

He trusted Sam, and he trusted Sam around Steve. And that was enough.

______

Weeks passed, and Bucky no longer hid guns in the apartment. He kept the knives under his pillow, but agreed to put them into holsters. 

He didn't punch holes into Tony's walls anymore, and the third mirror Steve brought into their bathroom stayed intact. Not after the Red Woman – Natasha – had showed up on their doorstep one afternoon, and taken Bucky by the arm to the sparring mat. The bruises and cuts he had returned home with had alarmed Steve, but something on Bucky's face, apparently, had kept him from commenting on them.

“You look calm, James,” Natasha had said as a way of explanation when Bucky had asked about it. “He can see it's good for you.”

Bucky liked Natasha. She was competent, steady.

Weeks turned into months, and Bucky almost remembered to feed himself, now. He no longer needed the colorful post-its Steve used to stick into mirrors and walls to remind him to eat.

Pancakes were his favorites, he thought.

The asset hadn't... liked... things. The asset just obeyed – Bucky was still getting the hang of expressing opinions, having a taste for something.

He cooked breakfast one morning, when Steve was still asleep. He burned the toast in the futuristic space machine Tony called a toaster, and miraculously managed to make the bacon both half-raw and charred. The coffee turned out watery.

Steve ate every last crumb with a smile like the rising sun on his face, his knees pressed to Bucky's under the kitchen table.

Bucky smiled tentatively, testing the expression on his face.

______

On bad days, in Bucky's head, the delicate line between reality and everything else blurred.

His mind was already fuzzy to begin with – the frequent wipes had fried his brain to the point no one was actually sure he'd ever recover completely – and the memories that pooled in the recesses of his consciousness had him reeling when a recollection hit. Some memories were good. Others – the ones with shadows, blood, and nightmare men with sharp needles and cold hands that struck his face – were the ones that were hard to swallow.

Sometimes he didn't know if he even was real himself.

He wasn't entirely sure that he hadn't just frozen to death in the Alps after falling from the train, and all the decades since were just his personal hell. There were times when he thought that all of this must have been a punishment, for every selfish thought and misplaced pride and a foolish mind.

He wasn't sure if the Winter Soldier wasn't just something his own mind had made up.

Some mornings he still woke up, convinced that Steve was still dead, and the apparition whose hands shook him lightly, calling his name, must have been a cruel joke. And the worst part was, every time it happened, he thought it would have been a punishment fitting for his crimes.

Whenever he got like that, he had gotten into the habit of reaching out to Steve.

It grounded him, and reminded him of the time and the place.

Steve was here, so it couldn't be 1953, when he had slit the throat of that Singaporean dignitary on a train from Munich to Berlin. He could feel Steve's pulse under his fingertips, warm blood singing in the veins underneath the skin; the year couldn't be 1970, when he had broken out of his programming for long enough to jam the shard of a broken mirror into his own neck in a desperate attempt to escape.

Better to die through his own hand than bow down to Hydra, he had thought at the time.

Steve was there, and he might have not been sure of a lot of things, but he knew that bad things could never happen when Steve was close.

Bucky breathed in an out, his hands curling around Steve's knee, and Steve let him.

A soft, murmured “You okay?” the brush of his fingers across Bucky's shoulders, through his hair. A leg pressed to his underneath the table at breakfast, after a night when Bucky had woken up screaming his throat hoarse.

“Just stay close,” he said.

And Steve always did.

It wasn't the first time Bucky thought that he didn't deserve him, and it wouldn't be the last.

______

Sometimes, Bucky just had to get away.

He'd get up at 3 AM, pull on one of Steve's hoodies, slip a gun into his waistband, and duck out. JARVIS always quietly asked if he needed anything.

“No. 'm fine,” Bucky always said. He was getting used to talking to the ceiling. “Don't wake Steve.”

He walked the streets of the city that never slept, and he let his thoughts scatter. The living city chased the ghosts of the dead and the dying from his head, and he could breathe again a little easier.

After one of such nights, Bucky stopped at Steve's bedroom door on his way back to bed. That night, the dreams had been about Zola and Pierce, ripped our arms and ice in his veins. He felt chilled to the bone, and not really like being alone with his past.

Quiet as a shadow, he slipped into Steve's bed – Steve was lying on his side, facing the door. His legs were curled up and shoulders drawn in, like his body tried to remember how to be small again.

He looked absolutely ridiculous. A smile tugged at Bucky's lips.

He crawled into the space between Steve's arms and legs. A wriggle, a little shuffle, and Bucky was able press his back against Steve's broad chest. He fit just right, in the circle of Steve's over-sized limbs.

“Buck?” Steve mumbled softly. The only movement he made was to unquestioningly drape one of his arms around Bucky's waist, and hook a leg over his knees. Still a damn octopus, apparently. Warm breath tickled at the back of Bucky's neck.

“Yeah, sorry I woke you.” A pause. “This okay?”

He wasn't exactly sure if this was something that friends were supposed to do. He was just so cold.

Bucky could feel Steve's eyes fluttering open against his skin.

“You know it is.” Steve shifted to pull the comforter tighter around them. “You went out again?”

“Yeah.”

“You alright?”

His voice was even, but Bucky knew that tone. Worried.

Bucky shrugged under the arm around him. “I guess.”

He stayed quiet for a few minutes, just listening to their heartbeats.

He remembered a time when they were kids, and Steve was so, so small. He was frail like glass and dumb as a thick-skulled boar that didn't know it could break if it ran headfirst into a fight. Bucky was afraid one day he'd shatter into a million little pieces, and take the weak heart from Bucky's chest with it. The countless times he'd spent dabbing his scraped knees and wiping blood from his swollen mouth, Bucky had often wondered if Steve knew that he ran into those fights with Bucky's heart in his pocket.

Bucky didn't go into the war to fight for his country. That was a fight he'd decided to run into before it got to Steve.

Steve's heart had fluttered like a bird's, and Bucky had lain awake so many nights, ear pressed to the thin chest, taking comfort in the faint sound. He had been so afraid one day his friend's treacherous heart would just stop beating.

Now, Steve had the heart of the lion he had always been. It beat like war drums in his chest, never faltering.

“Steve?” He asked quietly.

“Mmm?”

Bucky tugged the arm around him, and placed Steve's hand on his own heart, fingers splaying on his chest. It was warm enough to feel hot through the fabric of Bucky's t-shirt. Bucky wondered if Steve knew that that touch was just about the only thing that staved off the chill that had crept into his lungs and slithered into his veins again.

It had been months since the last time he'd been cryofreezed, but the cold was surprisingly resilient.

“Can you tell me something?”

A soft breath. “Anything, Buck.”

“Can you tell me about Ma?”

______

It started with the touches.

In hindsight, Bucky thought, he should have realized where it was going all along.

It took him way too long to realize what the heavy weight in his heart was, and why he only felt its presence when Steve was around.

 ______

Bucky knew he was lost when he watched Steve take a sip from his coffee mug one afternoon, and idly wondered what it would taste like if he kissed him right now.

He'd never been this lost in his life, and that was counting all the decades when he had been nothing but an empty shell, a gun to be filled with orders and pointed at will.

That had been easy. He knew how to take orders, and he knew how to hurt people. This.... this was something he was completely out of his depth with.

He didn't know who to ask for help, or how, but he should have known he lived surrounded by people who sensed he was at a loss.

______

That night, Bucky slipped on the roof of the tower. He needed air, and space to think.

He apparently wasn't the only one, because there was a figure on the ledge of the roof, swinging his legs over the edge.

“A drink, Sergeant?” Barton asked without turning to look at Bucky, who was still hesitating at the door to the rooftop. Bucky huffed out a laugh – he should know better than expect to surprise an assassin and a sniper.

He walked over and dropped to sit soundlessly beside Barton. “What are we drinking?”

“Scotch. The best money can buy.”

“Not your money, is it?” Bucky raised a sceptic eyerbrow at the bottle Barton was wiggling, the golden liquid sloshing around. “That looks like one of Stark's bottles.”

“That's because it is. He's not gonna miss it.” Barton sniffed. “How 'bout it?”

Bucky accepted the cup Barton slid over to him. “This is a disgrace, you know,” he remarked dryly, lifting the paper cup to take a sip.

“Couldn't find any glasses.”

“Blasphemy.”

Barton gave a half shrug, but didn't say anything. They fell silent, looking over the Manhattan skyline, the city murmuring beneath them, the dusk gathering and color draining from the skyline. It was odd, Bucky thought, how comfortable the silence was. Two snipers, their legs swinging over the edge of a luxurious skyscraper, sipping scotch as expensive as liquid gold from paper mugs.

It must have taken at least twenty minutes before Barton finally spoke.

“What do you recon we're here for?”

Startled out of his quiet reverie, Bucky blinked. “Uh, on the rooftop or in the Tower or what?”

“No, I mean like _here_ here. In the world.”

Bucky didn't have the faintest idea what to say to that so he stayed quiet. Barton's eyes were still fixed on the horizon.

“It's all seems so pointless, somehow. We just run around, mess up, try to fix things, and move on to mess something else up. Running like we know where we're going when in reality no-one has a fucking clue what we're doing.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. He took the bottle from Barton and peered at it. “Didn't know you were such a shit drinker, you must be wasted and this isn't even that strong,” he said. “You do realize I have no fucking clue what you're saying?”

But Barton was waving at his hand, swatting the hand Bucky had the cup in. Some liquid splashed on his fingers. “No, no, no shut up, I'm being serious here.”

“Right.”

“I'm serious. We're all lost in this world, until one day,” he spread his hands, “we aren't. We find something, or someone, to believe in. We find our light, and we gotta follow it.”

Barton's face grew suddenly serious, and he fixed Bucky with a gaze that held no trace of drunkenness. His eyes were sharp. “I'm telling you, Barnes,” he said, pointing one calloused finger at him. He poked him in the chest. “When you find that, you never, ever let go. There is no fault in loving someone so fiercely you'll follow them with your whole life.”

“I –“ Bucky started weakly.

Barton went on like he'd never been interrupted. “That's the only thing that matters. We're all fucking lost here, but you just gotta find someone's hand to hold and be lost together.”

He seemed to mull something over in his head before coming to a conclusion, and clapped a hand on Bucky's shoulder. “You take good care of Steve, okay? Sometimes I think he's a goddamned idiot but I think he deserves to get laid once at least in the century.” He winked. “I've got some good real good advice for you guys if you ever need it, some great websites. The first rule and the only rule is that don't ask help from Stark. Alright, I'm out.”

He patted Bucky on the arm again, and hoisted himself up. He'd hopped down on the fire escape and disappeared before Bucky had even time to close his mouth, now hanging open in mild shock.

_What the actual hell?_

He sat on that rooftop for a long, long time after that, thinking.

His heart was still doing odd lurches in his chest, long after he'd crawled into bed. Steve's bed, because apparently the only one who he was kidding was himself.

______

He should have known not to look for Natasha.

She was the one who found Bucky, as if she'd known he needed her.

She curled silently beside him where he was sitting cross-legged on the sparring mat at the deserted gym. Her feet were bare and the expression on her face far too knowing.

“Would you like to talk about it?” She asked quietly.

“Talk about what?”

When Natasha didn't answer right away, Bucky turned to look at her. She was watching him, mouth pursed. “You know what I mean, James.”

Bucky frowned, and looked at Natasha's face, like he was searching for something.

Natasha tilted her head, but said nothing. She only arched one perfectly penciled eyebrow.

Bucky swallowed over the dryness of his throat. “It's Steve.” he finally said. “I think I –” He had to swallow again. “I think I love him.”

It tasted strange in his mouth. It was like his tongue didn't quite know what to do with the words, more used to spitting out mission reports, bone fragments, and blood.

He was so lost.

 _The Asset does not speak unless spoken to_.

They prickled inside his barb wired brain, the rest of his thoughts scattering like frightened birds. His fried mind, usually so loud he could barely hear himself, was oddly quiet.

He tried it again, just to test it. “I love him.”

He realized his voice didn't waver at the end to make it a question. It didn't trail off when he suddenly became unsure what to say, like so many other things that he spoke of. This, he knew to be absolutely true.

Natasha's smile was even softer than her words. It curled at the edges of her mouth, and something about it gave the impression that this was not news to her.

“I know, James. And you are quite right to,” she said. She placed her small hand on Bucky's, her expression kinder than he had ever seen it. “But I think I am not the person you need to say it to.”

______

A day later, and Bucky found himself standing in Sam's kitchen.

He wasn't quite sure how he got there and pretty sure he'd managed to startle Sam, too. Weeks in the tower, and the man still hadn't gotten quite used to living around three assassins.

Sam blinked owlishly, the chopping knife clattering on the table and a few pieces of carrot rolling to the floor. Bucky stayed rooted on the spot at the kitchen door, not quite sure what to do. He had climbed in through the window, but he'd been so sure he had made enough noise this time.

“Hey,” Sam said quietly. He had that look on his face that managed to be concerned without being patronizing. He wiped his hands on a towel. A few careful steps, and a firm hand landed on Bucky's metal shoulder. “You okay, man?”

Bucky shrugged under the grip, and ducked his chin. He hoped the curtain of hair that fell to cover his face hid his expression.

Maybe this had been a mistake.

“There something you wanted to talk about?”

“No, I just -” Bucky shrugged again. “It's nothing. Sorry I didn't mean to bother you.”

“You're not bothering me, and you know I'm always all ears.” Sam studied the expression on Bucky's face for a moment. “You hungry? I was just finishing dinner, I could use some company.”

At a loss, Bucky just shrugged again. He actually couldn't remember the last time he ate.

He helped Sam finish cooking. Sam handed him the knife and pointed him to the vegetables on the cutting board. (“Seriously, Barnes,” he huffed at Bucky's incredulous expression. “I trust you can direct the knife at the broccoli and not me.”) Sam stirred the pan of noodles and chicken, humming under his breath while Bucky laid the table.

“I think I'm in love with Steve.” He finally blurted when they were halfway through the meal. He poked the pieces of chicken on his plate, and tried to keep his eyes on the plate. He hated how small his voice sounded, like a lost child.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam's fork stop midway to his mouth. Carefully, he laid it back on the plate, took a slow swig of of beer, and set the bottle down before he leveled Bucky with a look.

“Okay,” he said.

He folded his hands on the table, but didn't say anything else.

Bucky fiddled with the corner of his napkin. “You– you're not surprised?”

“Honestly, no. But I am surprised it didn't take you longer than this to figure it out.”

Bucky kept his eyes resolutely on his hands. He felt like an idiot. Of course he'd be the last one to figure it out. “I– I don't know what to do,” he finally said.

Sam's mouth turned down at the corners. He looked thoughtful. “Have you thought you should maybe just tell him?”

“I don't think he feels like that. He wouldn't– ” Bucky's heart squeezed in his chest, cold like icy fingers slithering into his throat and weaving around his ribcage. He couldn't enough air into his lungs. “He wouldn't wanna be like that, he's always liked women.”

Bucky lifted his eyes from the table top when he heard Sam's chair scraping the floor. He disappeared in the hallway, only return moments later holding something.

“Here,” he said, pressing the small vanity mirror into Bucky's hands.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Take a look. And wipe that look off your face, just look.”

Baffled, Bucky just angled the mirror to see himself. His eyes were wide, and his hair hung in tangles around his face. Looking into mirrors wasn't something he exactly did often, and he was at a complete loss what Sam was after.

“And?” He asked impatiently, lifting his gaze to look at Sam.

“What's that on your cheek and all over your jaw?”

“Uh,” Bucky turned back to the mirror. “Charcoal, I guess?”

Sam crossed his arms. “And how did it get there? You don't draw, do you?”

Bucky just blinked. _Where the hell was this going?_

“No, Steve does. He sketches with it. You know, like landscapes and portraits and whatever. You've seen him with his nose buried in that sketch pad.”

“And how exactly did it get on _your_ face?”

“Well, from Steve's hands. He always forgets to wash his hands before he –“ Bucky trailed off, realization dawning. “Oh.”

Sam smiled, and took the mirror. “All I'm saying is, people don't usually have problem keeping their hands off the faces of people they don't care for.”

“But... but that's like normal for friends, isn't it?”

Sam's answering smile was amused. “You see any charcoal on my face, Barnes?” He patted Bucky's arm. “Definitely not in the 'Just-Friends Behavior' category. Trust me on this.”

On his way out, Bucky was halfway out the door before he could get the words out – the fear that had been growing in his chest and choking his airways.

“Sam? What if Steve doesn't want me cause I– cause I'm broken?”

“You're not broken, Barnes." Sam said. "No-one is, not really. Just a little battered.”

“But...” Bucky hesitated. “But what happens if I get bag again? If I snap and I become dead weight again, and –“ He felt his own voice waver. The metal plates whirred and whined on his left hand as he squeezed it into a tight fist. “Steve doesn't wanna drag me around for the rest of his life. Not if it gets bad again, and I can't go on anymore.”

Sam shrugged. “When you can't walk, you just crawl.”

“That sounds cryptic as shit, and just like something Phil would say.”

“What, Coulson?” Sam asked.

“No, the one on TV. The doctor.”

Sam just blinked at him. “Do not tell me that you've been watching Dr. Phil on TV, or I swear to God.”

“I have a lot of time.” Bucky said, sniffing. “And he has good advice. This one time he gave real good talk to this dame who –“

“Get out of my house,” Sam cut in, pointing at the door. “Assassin or not, I will kick you in the ass. And don't take advice from Dr. Phil! I mean it, Barnes.”

Bucky chuckled but turned to look back at the elevator doors. The smile slid from his face.

“No, but really. What happens when you... if you can't even crawl anymore?”

Sam's expression softened, though he didn't smile. “You let someone carry you.”

______

It took him weeks before he found his courage. He was a coward, but that was nothing new. Steve was the one with the brave soul and a pure heart, Bucky was nothing more than a pale moon, orbiting Steve's brilliance that shone like the sun.

One day, he decided, he was going to be worthy of it.

______

Bucky found Steve in the kitchen, expertly flipping pancakes. His feet were bare and he was whistling tunelessly, his broad shoulders shifting under the fabric of his t-shirt.

The sight made Bucky mouth dry up, and he had to swallow before he could speak. “Steve?”

“Hmm?” He turned around at the stove, still poking the pancakes with a spatula.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?”

It must have been something on Bucky's face or his tone of voice that made Steve abandon the food immediately. “What is it? Are you alright?”

Bucky glanced over his shoulder. “You're gonna burn them.”

“It can wait.” He took a hold of Bucky's upper arm, propelling him into the sitting room, and sitting him down on the couch. “Tell me.”

And Bucky did.

When he had finished choking it out, Bucky looked up.

Steve looked shocked, his blue eyes wide as ever. Then he blushed to the roots of his hair. The color was creeping up his neck and tinging the tips of his ears.

“I– I think I already knew,” he said, carefully. “But I'm really really glad you told me, Buck,” he hastened to continue.

It must have been because of the expression on Bucky's face. He felt the color drain from it. He bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. “For how long?” Bucky asked quietly.

Steve's hand was resting on his knee, close enough to touch, and Bucky gave in to the sudden urge. He slid his own hand over, and gently grasped Steve's fingers. They were warm, nice.

“I had my suspicions,” Steve answered. “Since you stopped sleeping in your own bed, I guess, and plastered on my back. And you are kinda handsy, sometimes.” He smiled. “I first thought it might have been my wishful thinking, but I guess not.”

Bucky dropped his gaze; It was easier to look at their joined hands than into Steve's eyes. He squeezed Bucky's fingers gently, but his gaze never left his face. Bucky could feel it prickling at the back of his neck.

He had always known when Steve was looking at him.

He remembered when they were nine and laying in the pillow fortress on the floor of Bucky's room. He could still taste the rain pattering against the windows and the heavy, humid air. Two boys, their hair plastered on their foreheads, with knobby knees and more in the way of brawl and bravado than brains. The city murmured quietly, its sounds floating in with the warm August breeze through the open window as they had lain in the darkness underneath the blankets.

“You asleep, Buck?” Steve had whispered too loudly in the dark.

“Yeah, and you better shaddup, too, before my Ma hears us.”

“You shaddup, jerk.” Bucky could hear the grin in Steve's voice. His eyes shone as he propped himself up on one thin elbow. “I wanna stay up. Let's go on the roof and watch the moon rise.”

“Punk,” Bucky had whispered back. He remembered smiling, too the corners of his eyes crinkling. “We can't sneak out. Ma will have my head on a plate if you catch a cold again.”

Steve had fallen quiet, flopping back on his pillow, but Bucky had known he wasn't asleep. He could feel his gaze on his face. He had just known that Steve was watching him.

And he looked at Bucky like he hung the moon.

He knew he didn't deserve it, but to hell with it if Bucky wasn't selfish enough to hold on to it with all he got.

Decades later, after all that blood and ice, the darkness curling in Bucky's veins and the poison bubbling underneath his skin, after war and gnawing time and so much blood he was sure his hands could never be scrubbed clean, and here Steve was, looking at him with that same light in his eyes.

The smile that had looked so bashful earlier that Bucky had almost wanted to laugh had changed to that same soft curl of his mouth and the glint in his eyes that had always made Bucky's stomach drop.

“Steve...” He started uncertainly. Swallowed, paused. He had to let him know this didn't mean anything. They could go on like always before, Bucky could keep it under wraps. He tried again. “Steve, you don't have to say anything, it's fine. It's stupid, I shouldn't have said anything and I promise I can shut up about it and it doesn't have to change anything – “

“Bucky –“

“Everything can stay like it is, we can still be friends, right? We don't ever have to talk about this again and I just –“

“Bucky, listen.”

“I know you don't feel like that, about” – Bucky had to swallow again. His throat felt tight – “about fellas. You had Peggy and I understand so just –“

“ _Bucky_.”

Steve's tone made Bucky finally snap his mouth shut.

Oh, hell. Had he made Steve mad? Was he upset? Grossed out? Shit, shit, shit, _shit_. He should have kept his mouth shut and –

The warm fingers at his jaw crashed the train of thought in half a second flat.

Bucky couldn't move, he was absolutely frozen to the spot, just looking at Steve that for some bizarre reason did not look angry at all, but _tender_.

“You didn't hear a word I just said, did you?”

He couldn't actually remember the last words Steve had spoken. He tried to think back.

“Uh.”

“I said,” Steve said gently, “I wasn't sure how you felt, but I _hoped_ I was right. And I'm guessing I was?”

Bucky had always been a coward, he wasn't the hero they tried to make him to be, just a dumb kid following an ever dumber one to keep him safe, running into war so he wouldn't have to. He could see the expression on Steve's face and would have to be blind not to see what was written on it, clear as ever.

And Bucky couldn't even move a muscle to do something about it, other than nod numbly.

Lucky for him, Steve had always been the brave one.

He was the one with a misplaced sense of pride and the courage of a fool, the skinny boy everyone kept underestimating, who had the audacity to lean forward and place the gentlest of kisses at the corner of Bucky's mouth.

And because Steve wasn't one to back away from anything, consequences be damned, the next one landed softly on Bucky's lips that parted like they had been waiting this for 70 years.

Steve's hands pressed on both sides of Bucky's face, cradling it. His thumbs swept over Bucky's cheekbones.

He could feel Steve grinning into the kiss, and pulled away to peer at his face.

“The hell you grinning about, Rogers?”

Steve's smile just widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He was even blushing again, the moron. Bucky would have asked him if he knew how goofy his smile was if he didn't know for a fact he was wearing a matching one on his own face.

“Well, I've been waiting to do that since 1934, sure I got a reason to smile?”

Bucky blinked, brow furrowing.

“1934? But that would – ?”

He trailed off. Steve just lifted an eyebrow, waiting patiently for Bucky to put it all together. His smile had turned sly.

“Oh,” Bucky said quietly. Then, a little more emphatically, “ _oh_.”

“Yeah, 'oh'.”

“But Peggy?” Bucky spluttered. “What about those dames at the tours, the USO girls you told me about?”

“I can kinda like both, can't I?” Steve shrugged. “And I would've married Peggy, after the war, if she would have had me, but even then...” Another lift of his shoulders, this one with something sad in its edges. “I guess I always had this other fella in my mind, and he was my world. He was my best pal and woulda always been my first choice, but things didn't work like that back then.”

“Steve...” Bucky shuffled closer on his knees to curl his fingers in the fabric of Steve's t-shirt. He burrowed his face in the crook of his neck, breathing deeply. Steve always smelled so nice. Plain soap and washing detergent, and that damned charcoal that always smudged his fingers and somehow ended up on his face. He was warmer than any human being had any right to be.

Steve circled his arms around his shoulders, squeezing like he planned on holding on, come hell or high water.

Maybe he did.

“Why didn't you say anything?” Bucky mumbled quietly to the side of his neck.

“Why didn't _you_?”

“I thought you didn't feel like that, I thought I was the only one, I –” Bucky grimaced. “Didn't wanna gross you out.”

The sigh Steve let out ruffled Bucky's hair and tickled his ear. “Oh, Buck. If you'd only known.” He laughed, but it sounded humorless. “You were the most gorgeous fella on a ten mile radius, always a girl at your arm, and I was the one guy no dame wanted to dance with.”

“Steve...”

“And it was fine, really,” Steve went on. “Never really wanted to dance with the dames, anyway. Just that really good looking guy in that really dashing uniform.”

The laugh that escaped Bucky's throat sounded a little hoarse to his own ears. “Well, I'm glad I'm not the only fucking moron in this relationship.”

“Hey!”

Bucky pressed a finger on Steve's lips to hush him as he climbed fully on his lap, thighs on either side of his waist. Steve's eye were comically wide. “Shut up and show me what you've got, Rogers.”

______ 

A tranquil morning, few days after, found Bucky with his hand hovering inches above the short hair at Steve's neck, uncertain. Bucky chewed his lip, watching the rise and fall of Steve's chest.

The snoring was quite charming, actually.

“You know you can actually touch me, if you want,” Steve said quietly without opening his eyes. The snoring had stopped.

Bucky drew his hands away sheepishly. “I was just watching.” Crossing his legs and propping his elbows on his knees, Bucky leaned on his hands, watching. “Did you know you're like a over-grown, overly affectionate starfish when you sleep?”

Steve snorted. He cracked open one eye. “Oh yeah? And who's the one who hogs all the covers and insists on being the bigger spoon even though I can't fit anymore?”

“I miss my little Stevie. The one with skinny shoulders and feet like ice cubes.”

“It's my turn to smother you now. Get used to it.”

Both of Steve's eyes were open now, and he was watching Bucky sleepily from under his lashes. His hair was sleep mussed, sticking in every possible direction.

“But I mean it, Buck. Any time you want to touch me, for whatever reason, you can. Permission granted forever.” Steve's hand slid over to thread his fingers through Bucky's. “You've always had it, and you always will.”

“That's really sappy, Steve,” Bucky said dryly, although he did give in to slide his free hand through Steve's unruly hair, smoothing it down.

Steve went completely limp under his touch; Bucky was absolutely positive if he could, he would have purred like a cat.

“I wonder what your enemies would think of the information that Captain America goes completely defenseless when you pet his hair.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Bucky quirked a challenging eyebrow at the glint in Steve's eyes that flew open again.

“What did you say?”

“I said,” Bucky drew his hand away, and leaned over on the bed to enunciate the words carefully, inches from Steve's face. “Make. Me.”

He was out of the bed, running down the hallway squealing in a very undignified manner, before Steve had time to grab him.

______

As if out of some spite, the next night his nightmares were worse than ever, interrupting the calm that had bloomed inside him.

When they came back, dark and deep like a bottomless ocean, churning his stomach, he found himself retching by the toilet on the chilly bathroom floor.

It didn't take long before Steve dropped to sit by him, rubbing soothing circles into his clammy skin.

“You okay?”

Bucky spat into the toiler bowl and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “This is all messed up, Steve.  _I_  am messed up.” He smiled wryly. “But it makes for a helluva story, doesn't it? Something to tell the grandkids.” He sneered. "'The Broken Toy Soldier.'"

Steve smiled. He had that infuriating curl at the corner of his mouth. The one that Bucky has always wanted to kiss, just so see if it tasted any different than the rest of his lips.

“Every story's a little twisted. Just the way we are.” Steve reached out a hand to tuck an unruly lock of hair behind his ear. "They're all a bit banged up an broken, because we are, too.” He smiled, but kept the tips of his fingers pressed to Bucky's jawline, feather light.

“Who wants a story like that?”

Steve reached up his other hand to smooth the line that had formed between his eyebrows. “I do.”

“Steve...”

“I want your story, and I want mine. We made it through war and death, Bucky, we made it through the madness, and now look at us. We're here. We're alive, and I found you.” He smiled, just a little, but it was the sunlight after a long, long winter. It warmed Bucky's chilled skin. “You're gonna be okay. We're gonna be okay.”

Bucky pressed his nose into the hollow of Steve's throat, breathing deeply.

“You promise?”

“No,” Steve said softly, “I can't, but even if we won't be, we'll figure it out.”

______

“I wanna go to a roadtrip,” Bucky said one day.

Steve raised his eyebrows. “Where?”

“Anywhere. Everywhere.”

______

 

They left one sunny Tuesday morning.

Two duffel bags packed with clothes and Steve's sketchbooks, they had headed down to the belly of the Tower. They picked the least ostentatious car from the garage full of vehicles that cost more money either of them had ever seen in their lives.

Bucky pointed to a silver Aston Martin parked in the corner and Steve threw their bags on the back seat.

They hadn't actually asked for permission but borrowing a car without telling Tony didn't bother Bucky as much as it maybe should have – he had a peculiar feeling that somehow, Tony already knew. JARVIS helped them find the keys, and Steve found a gift in his jacket pocket that had made him blush fiercely. "SAFETY FIRST -Tony" was scribbled on top of the small package of aggressively pink condoms in Tony's handwriting. It had apparently been signed by Barton, too, with a different color pen. He'd even added a smiley face. Bucky just laughed.

Before they left, Pepper appeared out of nowhere, placing two sandwiches in Steve's hands. She kissed them both gently on the cheek, with a murmured “Stay safe, boys.” The glint behind her eyes was knowing.

Bucky surprised them all by hugging her gently, before scooting into the car.

They drove for days, without a destination. It didn't seem to bother either one of them. Bucky lounged on the passenger seat, stretched out with his feet on the dashboard, window rolled down, watching the world swirl by. First the bustling city, then suburbs, and finally just fields and quiet forests. They looked endless.

They bickered about music. Steve wanted to listen to classics – he liked the station that played Bing Crosby and Glenn Miller songs – and only agreed to change it when Bucky kept beatboxing to a pop song he'd heard on the other station. Bucky only insisted on liking them because it annoyed Steve, and he suspected Steve knew that.

They stopped when they got tired, and got up at dawn to set off again. Sometimes they drove for two days straight, wheels devouring the miles like they were running from something. Sometimes they stayed, if they didn't feel like moving on quite yet. Once, they stopped in the middle of nowhere to look at a sunrise over a field of corn. Steve held his hand as Bucky just stood there, saying nothing, for hours.

Bucky bought garish postcards from every gas station, and laughed when Steve made faces at them.

“Why can't you buy the pretty ones?”

Bucky would just grin and wave them at Steve's face. “These have _character_ , Stevie. You can't claim that Abe Lincoln riding a horse wearin' a cowboy hat doesn't get your rocks off.”

Steve would just shake his head, and make Bucky snort even harder. He started buying tacky little souvenirs and hiding them into Steve's bag when he wasn't looking. Little Obama bobbleheads and plastic unicorns rolled out when Steve pulled out boxers and t-shirts.

It was somewhere in Illinois when they got into the argument.

“I didn't like the way he looked at you,” Steve insisted stubbornly, when they pulled out of the gas station.

“Steve, I can take care of myself. I'm an _assassin_.” He flexed the metal arm in emphasis. “The only reason I didn't punch his face through the back of his skulls was because he surprised me. The next time some guy tries to feel me up I promise I'll dig out their spine and give it to you as a souvenir “ He said cheerfully but the ferocious expression on Steve's face didn't budge. Bucky's eyes slid on Steve's hands. “You're gonna break the steering wheel, _relax_.”

Steve eased his grip on the wheel, but the scowl stayed on his face.

Bucky sighed. _“_ You can't protect me from everything, Steve.”

“I know, but that doesn't mean I'm not gonna try my fucking best to do just that.”

Bucky slapped his hand on his mouth in mock horror. “Steven Grant Rogers, did you just _swear_ at me?”

Steve took his eyes off the road to glare at Bucky.

Bucky stared right back. “You gotta keep your eyes on the road, Stevie. And you're going like 15 over,” he pointed out helpfully. “God, I can't believe they let you to be Captain America, you're a danger to us all.”

“I can fucking swear. And take your feet off the dashboard, were you raised in a barn or something?”

Bucky sniffed. “No, but I grew up with this little dumb punk who taught me bad manners.”

The smile tugging at Steve's lips didn't quite break through, but Bucky counted it as a victory. The fierce light in his eyes that had always landed them in trouble, and Steve in fights he wasn't able to finish, had disappeared.

Bucky scooted down on the seat and shifting to drop a foot on Steve's lap. He leaned on the passenger side door to properly take in the sight. The setting sun bathed the car in its golden light, painting Steve's face in muted oranges and yellows. It turned his hair into a soft honey and the smile – the one hiding at the corners of his mouth and in the glint in his eyes that was threatening to break into the surface despite Steve's best efforts – into something quite spectacular.

He reached out and traced one finger along Steve's jaw, just because he could. “Has anyone ever told you that you're quite a pretty fella?”

“Shut up.”

Bucky smirked and stared quietly at the passing cars and lights for a moment, before thumping Steve on the thigh with his leg. “Hey, can we stop for burgers?”

Steve side-eyed him. “Bucky, we literally just ate.”

“But I'm hungry again.”

“Eat a granola bar,” Steve answered and, honest to God, actually dug one out of his pocket and tossed it to Bucky's lap.

“But Steeeeeve,” Bucky whined, looking at the bar on his lap, aghast. “Stevie, I'm hungry. This is not food, this is a lie.” He chucked the granola – it ended up somewhere in the back seat, between their duffel bags – and put on his best pout, turning down the corners of his mouth and pulling down his eyebrows. He nudged Steve's ribs with his toes. “You gonna let me starve, Stevie?”

It took one sidelong glance in his direction for Steve to relent.

_Ha. Worked like a charm every time._

“Oh, Jesus. _Fine_ , you big baby,” he said. “I'll take you to McDonald's if you promise to stop looking like someone ran over your dog.”

“Wendy's. Not McDonald's.”

Steve just stared. “I can't actually believe you. Or that I always give in to you,” He said, shaking his head.

“It's because you love me.”

The smile he got in return was wry. “God help me, I actually do,” Steve murmured. “And you're such a jerk.” He had his eyes on the road stretching ahead of them, but Bucky didn't need to see his expression to sense the warmth in his words. He could hear the smile in it. “I can't believe I picked such a jerk. I had so many options, and I chose this.” He was shaking his head.

“Punk,” Bucky said, just as affectionately.

He took a hold of the hand Steve reached towards him, and held on tightly.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos mean helluva lot to me, really.


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